


Washington on Your Side

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Lawrence 'Verse [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consent Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Godawful Kink Etiquette, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Pain Kink, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Threesome, Verbal Humiliation, Whamcest, You Have Been Warned, but seriously no one behaves well here, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Alexander has always been curious about George's brother. When Lawrence comes to visit for a few days, it turns out the fascination is mutual. George doesn't seem to mind—in fact he has some ideas of his own—and by the time Lawrence leaves, nothing will be quite the same.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, George Washington/Alexander Hamilton/Lawrence Washington
Series: Lawrence 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095620
Comments: 100
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

Alexander has met Lawrence Washington only a handful of times.

Always in passing—a ride to the airport, a quick lunch surrounded by business executives, a handshake in the hallway outside George's office—interactions far too short to sate his desperate curiosity. George Washington is larger than life, a powerful CEO quietly running his expansive kingdom. Which makes his older brother a different sort of puzzle, one Alexander would surely be fascinated by even if his relationship with George were strictly professional.

But his relationship with his boss is skewed far beyond the bounds of professional propriety, and Alexander craves every scrap of minutia the universe deigns to give him. He wants to know everything about George. And that means Lawrence—quiet, affable, accomplished older sibling that he appears—is too compelling to ignore.

"Why don't you ever visit him?" Alexander asks more than once. Hell, he's been asking George the same questions for years. "Why don't you ever vacation together? You clearly get along. How come he never stays in town more than a day at a time?"

George's answering laughter is always dismissive, accompanied by an exasperated shake of the head. "Lawrence is a _busy man_."

Which is all the answer Alexander ever gets. As though it's a point so obvious and ridiculous it does not bear expounding upon, no matter how desperate he is for more. To know _everything_. To see his boss—his secret boyfriend—his increasingly complicated _partner_ more clearly, through the lens of the older brother George clearly idolizes.

Alexander does not even know what Lawrence's job is. The closest he can figure out is that perhaps it's classified. High security government work that requires leaving no footprint at all. It would explain the fact that Lawrence always seems to be surrounded by men in suits, and that even family doesn't seem able to cut into his hectic travel schedule.

He is shocked utterly speechless the day George glances across the kitchen with a freshly poured mug of coffee in hand, and says as though it's an uneventful afterthought, "My brother will be in town on Monday. He's staying with us for a week."

For a moment Alexander only stares. Blinking. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. George's condo is certainly large enough to accommodate a prolonged visit—there are three separate guest rooms, none used outside the occasional instances George drags Alexander into one of them to tie him up and fuck him senseless—but this is _Lawrence_. The mysterious and out-of-reach older brother George rarely sees, who Alexander has interacted with only in passing, who is somehow going to be _here_.

In this condo. _In this very kitchen_ probably. An actual solid presence, and a real person with whom Alexander can interact.

"With us," Alexander echoes cautiously. "You don't… need me to stay somewhere else while he's here?"

The look George gives him is dry and a little disbelieving. "Why in god's name would I ask you to do that? This is your home too."

"And I can still sleep in your bed?"

" _Our_ bed, Alexander. Why are you being so dismissive of your place here?"

"God damn it, George, I'm asking if your brother _knows about us_."

George's expression does not change in any measurable way, and yet there's something like mischief in his answer. "Of course he knows." Teasing. Because he must have understood what Alexander was truly asking from the start. It's not as though they aren't meticulously careful in every other facet of their lives. They have to be. Less in deference to George's reputation than because Alexander's ambition leaves him in a far more tenuous position.

As a former administrative assistant recently promoted to a manager's desk of his own—an improbable leap, but one he earned with his hard work and competence—the optics of their affair would be unfortunate at best. If people learn he's sleeping with his boss, that he _has been for years_ , all sorts of ugly questions about his qualifications will arise.

The fact that Lawrence Washington already knows gives Alexander a surprising amount of new information. Confirmation that George and his brother are indeed as close as Alexander has guessed. Evidence that there is a significant level of trust between the two men. Proof that they're not just family but close friends, because why else would George convey something so secret and personal?

It doesn't occur to Alexander to be irked that George shared this secret without consulting him. George rarely consults him about anything in advance of simply doing as he pleases. In realms both personal and professional, George simply takes whatever action he likes, and trusts the consequences to sort themselves out.

This is fine when it comes to decisions about the behemoth of a company George started and still runs with his own two hands.

It should _not_ be acceptable when it comes to things he and Alexander do in private. Rationally Alexander knows this. It's inexcusable, the way George simply _takes_. Even the first time he put his hands on Alexander, he did not ask. Back of a limo, windows tinted, end of a late night—escaping a fancy fundraising gala that was pure business—George pinned him to the limo's leather seat and fucked him so hard Alexander had to telecommute the next morning.

It was the best orgasm of his life, though George has given him more and better since.

George _never_ asks first. Against all reason, he seems simply to know what Alexander wants.

Or sometimes what Alexander _needs_ , even if he would never—not fucking _ever_ —have recognized or admitted it before George's powerful hands put him where he needs to be.

So, yes, it's fucked up beyond reason. That's just their baseline reality. George never asks. He simply uses Alexander however he wants, gifting pleasure and pain in perfect measure, never bothering with such vital details as consent.

And Alexander would not trade his fucked up reality for anything.


	2. Chapter 2

He volunteers to skip out on his morning schedule to pick Lawrence up from the airport, but George shoots him down with a smile.

"He won't need a ride. I've already given him a key to the condo, and he'll have a chauffeur of his own."

Alexander blinks, taking that in, then shakes his head. "Are you _ever_ going to tell me what the fuck your brother does for a living?"

George's smile turns wry. "Classified government work. Something to do with experimental encryption technologies. And if I knew more than that, I certainly would not admit it."

"Not even to me?" Alexander pretends to pout, but George only arches a single eyebrow out him, so he tries a different line of questioning. "Is he here for a vacation, then?" Family or not, staying with a busy brother—who Alexander knows for a fact has taken no time off work to entertain a guest—won't make for an especially thrilling visit.

"Tech conference," George corrects, as he and Alexander both round up everything they'll need to depart for work. Perhaps commuting together every day is not the subtlest way to manage a secret affair—but now that they work in completely different departments, it's not as though Alexander's peers are in a position to notice. Even security has yet to catch wise, thanks to Alexander's habit of sneaking across the street for coffee before making his way inside.

"So he's here to work." Alexander shakes his head. "That sounds boring as fuck."

By the time he and George return home for the evening—together as always—Lawrence has arrived and made himself comfortable. There are multiple suitcases in the largest guest room, a mountain of papers spread across the coffee table, and the glorious smell and sizzle of stir-fry wafting from the kitchen.

"He _cooks_?" Alexander hisses under his breath, incredulous and delighted.

George's bland expression doesn't so much as flicker, but there's subtle amusement in his tone. "My brother has many talents." When Alexander moves a little too close to the coffee table covered with paperwork, George quietly admonishes, "I'm sure those documents are far above our security clearance."

Alexander doesn't see why that should matter. He's not the one who left top secret information lying around someone else's living room. Why shouldn't he satisfy his curiosity? Hell, it's probably all boring jargon. What harm can snooping really do?

But he follows George through the condo and into the sprawling kitchen.

Lawrence Washington is older than George, but the family resemblance is unmistakable. They have the same sturdy frame, the same broad shoulders, the same overabundance of muscles. Lawrence has a little extra height, which is seriously not fair, and more round weight softening his edges. Silver patches dust his hair and his closely cropped beard. His hands are enormous, just like George's, and he stands with the same perfect posture.

They also wear the same stern default expression, that breaks into something bright and charming when they smile—a fact Alexander learns the instant Lawrence realizes he's no longer alone in the kitchen. The grin that breaks across his face is potent, crinkling the corners of his eyes and putting a dimple in one cheek.

Lawrence is _damnably_ good-looking. If Alexander weren't utterly devoted to George, he would probably be looking for an excuse to slip this man his number.

"Get over here," Lawrence says to George, turning down the heat on the stove in order to crush his brother in a powerful hug. The gesture is so easy between them, casual fondness and a jovial energy as they greet each other warmly. There are hard slaps on the back, hands gripping wide shoulders. Low laughter. A comfort George rarely exhibits with anyone, whether in public or in private.

Alexander feels like an intruder, and he waits quietly near the living room door as George steps back to ask, "How was your flight?"

"Ugh. Turbulence nonstop. I couldn't eat a single bite of the in-flight meal."

"Hence dinner," George surmises.

"Maybe I just thought _you two_ would come home hungry," Lawrence counters, still grinning. Then, smooth as anything, he turns his attention away from George. "It's good to see you, Alexander. I hope you like vegetable stir-fry."

Quick as that, Alexander is no longer caught awkwardly on the outside. He remembers that this is his home. _His kitchen_ , just as much as it is George's, regardless of the fact that George refuses to let him pay rent. Lawrence is his guest too.

And it's the easiest thing to offer an answering grin. "It smells fucking incredible."

His stomach rumbles audibly, and suddenly George is peering at him hard. Disapproval creases the suddenly knit brow, and Alexander knows what's coming even before George says, "You skipped lunch again."

He shrugs, self-conscious. "There was a staffing crisis. Someone had to sort it out."

"Alexander—"

"Yeah, I know." He hates feeling like he's letting George down, _especially_ when it's over his own health. George won't harp on it—wouldn't, even if they stood in this kitchen alone—but George also won't pretend _not_ to worry. There's an unstinting protectiveness that Alexander has never particularly understood.

He's always been shitty at taking care of himself; why should George care?

But of course George cares. George cared even before things got complicated between them. It's just how the man is.

"Should I see if we've got a riesling to pair with the stir-fry?" Alexander asks before the moment can start to feel uncomfortable.

"Lawrence doesn't drink," George says, at the exact same moment their guest answers, "I don't drink."

Which is entirely reasonable, if not what Alexander expected. It's also none of his business why, so he shrugs and changes tack. "I'll set the table, then." Simple as that. More settled once he has a task to focus on. He is mostly peripheral to the conversation—even without being able to talk about Lawrence's job, the two Washington men clearly have a lot to catch up on—but he is not ignored. Questions come his way too. _His_ work, _his_ career trajectory, _his_ plans and thoughts and opinions.

If he lacks the insider knowledge to follow their private jokes and stories, that's all right. They always swing back around to include him before long.

By the time Alexander finishes with the dishes and silverware, George has joined him at the work. Filling glasses with ice and water, touching the small of his back when their paths cross closely. Alexander leans into the touch, letting it settle him. He doesn't care if Lawrence sees. The man already knows about them—knows they're together even if he has no concept of the complicated intensity between them—which means for once there is no need for Alexander to keep his guard up.

It's freeing, even here in the privacy of their own kitchen. Alexander draws a slow breath and lets the ebb and flow of conversation wash over him. Savoring the moment in all its welcome strangeness.


	3. Chapter 3

Alexander finds it remarkable, and more than a little surreal, how easily Lawrence fits into their routine.

George's brother is a comfortable presence. Barely perceptible some moments, as all three of them go about their normal lives without getting in each other's way—but a loud and charming presence whenever it's time to set work aside. It's strange really, just how easy Alexander finds being around him.

Alexander does not, as a rule, like people. He tends to be untrusting, unforgiving, braced always for disappointment. He certainly does not like allowing people into the more private spaces of his life. George is perhaps the only person he has ever instantly, instinctively wanted closer. It felt like gravity pulling him in, from the moment he first set foot in George's office. An ache of wanting that never once let up.

Perhaps, given his attachment to George—given the easy way George and Lawrence are together—it's no surprise that as the week edges forward, Alexander relaxes into Lawrence's presence, where normally he would tense at having an unknown element in his home.

Lawrence is not truly an unknown element. He is a Washington, and he is George's brother, and apparently this is all Alexander requires in order to trust him completely.

George isn't especially shy about touching Alexander, in spite of the fact that they have company. Nothing brazen—no passionate kisses in the hall, no hands slipping low to grope his ass, no grabbing and manhandling him into George's bedroom for a sudden ruthless fuck—but there is often a palm at the small of his back. Fingers brushing messy hair away from his face. A hand touching his own in quiet moments. And maybe this too is only natural. The way a normal couple behaves when they have nothing to hide.

It's not Alexander's fault he doesn't have much experience in that department.

Lawrence clearly does not mind the open displays of affection. And if he hears the noisier things they get up to in the privacy of their bedroom, he offers not so much as a single raised eyebrow the next day. He remains friendly, charming, nonchalant in all things—just as happy to talk complicated finance and accounting procedures with Alexander as lighter topics with George. A perfect houseguest. If only his presence didn't prevent George from wrestling Alexander to the living room floor and fucking him senseless whenever the mood takes them.

Alexander wonders _how much_ Lawrence knows about George's proclivities—or about their relationship. There is a vast gulf between knowing they're a couple and knowing the fucked up contours of their sex life. How much does George confide? Does Lawrence know George likes to inflict pain nearly as much as pleasure? Does he know Alexander's favorite way to be fucked is on the floor and brutal, pinned beneath George's powerful weight?

Does he know they have acted out a collection of shared fantasies, some scripted and some spontaneous, that George has recorded and locked away for their eyes only? That sometimes they watch those videos together?

That Alexander likes to fight?

Unlikely. Surely certain topics are beyond the scope of even the most candid brotherly conversation.

Alexander has never spoken with his own brother. But the idea of sharing such intimacies with James is enough to make his brain hurt. He can't quite imagine George and Lawrence—both so proper and graceful and focused—crossing such lines.

On Thursday, George has a work dinner—one that offers no pretense to invite a lowly accounts manager—so Alexander finds himself alone with Lawrence and a table full of Greek takeout. Now that Lawrence's conference is in full swing he is apparently too busy to cook. Alexander briefly considered preparing dinner himself, like some sort of proper host, but the truth is he doesn't want to. He's a mediocre chef at best, and he's exhausted. His work week has not been a smooth one. Even the thought of conversation is overwhelming, and he barely resists the urge to take his tzatziki and his salad into his tiny private office to hide.

He can't quite believe his luck when Lawrence looks at the containers full of food and asks, "How offended will you be if I work through dinner?"

"Not offended. Not _remotely_. I've got some things I should handle too." His own work can keep until tomorrow—he probably shouldn't have brought it home in the first place—but the thought of losing himself in a spreadsheet full of numbers is pure relief. So he sets his computer up next to his place setting and switches his attention back and forth. Eating. Working. Eating a little more.

George would approve. It's certainly better than the skipping-meals-entirely he was prone to before he got himself an overprotective boyfriend.

Somehow the fact that Lawrence is sitting at the same table, doing the exact same thing, makes Alexander's chest feel warm. Whatever the opposite of loneliness is, he's feeling it in this moment. Camaraderie? Companionship? There is something so straightforward in the fact that instead of an empty apartment he has… whatever the fuck this is. Quiet interrupted only occasionally by conversation. Everything low-stakes, only the faintest distraction. It's like Lawrence can tell when Alexander wants to be left alone, though it seems unlikely he's paying especially close attention.

By the time they both finish eating, Alexander has no more pretense of work to occupy him. Apparently Lawrence is also done with whatever was so urgent, packing papers away in chunky folders as Alexander clears their leftovers and loads silverware into the dishwasher.

Even now, the presence of company doesn't throw him off his stride like it should. When he turns from closing the dishwasher, he finds Lawrence leaning against a counter with muscular arms crossed. An uncomplicated smile lingers on his face.

"Thanks for dinner." Lawrence's voice is a pleasant baritone rumble, so much like George's. "My turn tomorrow?"

"Isn't tomorrow the last day of your conference?" Alexander instinctively protests. He could've sworn those are the logistics George and Lawrence discussed earlier this week. Conferences every weekday, and then the weekend to settle and relax before getting back on a plane to god-knows-where. "You'll be completely tanked after all that schmoozing. We can can order a damn pizza."

Lawrence's answering laugh is unexpected, but it's a friendly sound. Like sharing some amusing understanding, rather than the icy mockery Alexander hears so poorly disguised in most polite circles. His hackles, miraculously, do not rise. He offers a smile and a one-shouldered shrug.

There's a considering glint in Lawrence's eyes as he regards Alexander across the kitchen. A heavier look than a moment before, and one Alexander does not know how to decipher.

"You're a singular young man, you know that?" The intensity in Lawrence's expression eases, leaving only a lingering sliver of amusement in its wake. "I can see why my brother loves you."

Alexander's heart pounds harder at that one powerful word choice. _Love_. It's not precisely a surprise. He knows how George feels about him, knows damn well this thing between them is more than just a physical affair. They've been together too long to misunderstand each other, and George does not guard his emotions nearly so closely when they're alone. Alexander knows his adoration is returned, perhaps even with interest.

But to hear Lawrence say the word so easily, as though it's something George has simply mentioned in passing. A casual fact of reality. It's enough to make his face heat and the corners of his mouth creep up in an involuntary grin.

"I wish you would've come to stay with us sooner," Alexander blurts. And then, because why play it cool when George has almost certainly told Lawrence plenty of embarrassing stories about his lack of chill, he adds, "I like having you around."

The smile on Lawrence's face spreads into a wide, bright thing. He glows with delight, expression open and honest in a way that knocks Alexander flat.

George has only smiled like that a handful of times in the years they've been together, and every such moment is a cherished memory. Perhaps it's no wonder that seeing the same energy radiating off Lawrence is enough to make it momentarily difficult to breathe.

Alexander forces his lungs to obedience with concerted effort. Words have fled, leaving him scrambling for a way to change the subject. For _anything_ to say that might prevent the awkward silence about to settle in around them with his sudden lack of voice.

Before he can begin to panic he hears the slam of the front door and a jingle of keys.

Lawrence is still grinning when George joins them in the kitchen. Unselfconscious. Clearly oblivious to Alexander's irrational discomfort.

"Did you save me any dessert?" George asks, loosening his tie and slipping out of his suit jacket.

Alexander swallows hard, struck as always by the sight of George's face after a long day apart. George looks tired but no less handsome for it. His wide shoulders are tight, his jaw stubbled, and he's moving like he wants nothing more than to collapse on the couch and doze.

"Yeah," Alexander says, shaking free of this familiar distraction and turning for the fridge. "We got you covered."


	4. Chapter 4

Fridays are always quiet. Neither Alexander nor George is prone toward more ambitious socializing when they can get away with lazing at home. Alone. Able to indulge in each other— _be together_ —in ways they can't risk even in the most anonymous restaurant or club.

This holds just as true with Lawrence visiting, even if it means Alexander has to share George's attention. Even if he does wish a little bit that George would corner and debauch him, the perfect way to let off steam after a long day.

Sex would be a pleasant bonus, but Alexander doesn't need it. He is content exactly like this. Long past dinner, the dishwasher running quiet but audible from the kitchen, the television's volume turned low. George has found a golf tournament to watch—boring as fuck and not what Alexander would have chosen—but that's just fine. Alexander is too tired to put any focus on the screen anyway. He'd rather let his mind wander lazily as he curls into George's side, exactly like this. Warm and comfortable, enjoying the muscular arm holding him close, the rise and fall of George's chest beneath his cheek.

At the other end of the couch Lawrence is hard at work, wrapping up a week's worth of documentation. There is a near-constant shuffle of papers, an occasional shifting of weight that makes the leather cushions of the sofa creak. His presence is a pleasant element at the very edges of Alexander's awareness.

It's too bad Lawrence can't stay longer. They only have a couple of days left, and Alexander has grown accustomed to having him around.

None of this is enough to draw his attention away from George tonight. Any night, really, but especially in this moment. Intimate and easy. He wonders if George will fuck him tonight. If perhaps George can be convinced toward rougher play, maybe goaded into laying more punishing hands on him. Their sexual endeavors have been tame during Lawrence's visit. Perfectly understandable given the relative lack of privacy, but Alexander craves _more_. It's the only thing that comes near making him glad Lawrence will be leaving soon—though it still isn't enough to tip the scale.

These thoughts—wordless fantasies about George putting him violently in his place—distract him so thoroughly that it takes Alexander a while to notice the shuffling of papers behind him has stopped. There is disconcerting silence. Not just Lawrence gone still, he realizes, but the television muted as well, all while he wasn't paying attention.

The remote is still in George's hand, and a moment later he turns the television off and sets the remote aside.

There is some strange new energy cutting through the silence. It twists beneath Alexander's skin and makes his face heat for no discernible reason. Makes his heart pound faster and his breath quicken. When he looks up, George is watching him, an indecipherable glint in piercing eyes. Any hope of asking for guidance is squashed by the simple fact that he cannot find his voice.

"Alexander." That's Lawrence, and the way he says the name sends a shiver along Alexander's spine.

George's gaze rises—cuts directly over Alexander's head to look at Lawrence—but there's no hint of surprise in the subtle movement. Alexander shifts against George's side just enough to look over his shoulder and find Lawrence watching him. There is something fierce in that look. Something _hungry_. An intensity Alexander has spotted only in glimmers during the past week, but now here it is on full display as he is studied with unrepentant interest.

Lawrence lounges in his corner of the couch. Perfectly at ease. A beautiful and confident image of a man who knows exactly what he wants.

Alexander has more than faint suspicions what precisely that might be. He cannot quite believe George hasn't intervened, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth, bites down a little too hard. Trying to ground himself. Trying to figure out if he's reading the situation correctly—if Lawrence's hot gaze dragging shamelessly along his body means what he thinks it does.

It's not as though Alexander is provocatively dressed. A pair of gray sweatpants, a t-shirt just loose enough to lounge in comfortably, a messy cascade of the hair he let down and never bothered to comb. Yet Lawrence is staring at him like he's something too gorgeous to believe, and Alexander flushes hot beneath the flattering scrutiny. His mouth is watering. Jesus, is he really this turned on at the nebulous possibility of his boyfriend's brother touching him?

It's Lawrence who finally speaks again into the lingering quiet. "George tells me your talents extend far beyond the workplace. He speaks especially highly of your mouth."

Oh.

Oh, this _is_ real. Alexander has not just misconstrued his way to a deviant fantasy in his own head. Lawrence's covetous eyes mean exactly what he has assumed, and Alexander does not know what to do.

He pushes cautiously upright and turns to peer at George. Questioning. Still not quite believing the evidence of his eyes and ears.

George meets the questioning look with a deliberately bland expression, eyebrows high and no hint of either frown or smile. Somehow he manages to convey an air of expectation despite the poker face. Patient but also determined. Steady in perfect contrast to the frantic, eager hammering of Alexander's heart.

"Well?" George says, signaling that Alexander's stillness has lasted too long. "Go on, then."

The fact that George doesn't seem the slightest bit surprised—the fact that there is no sign of possessiveness or annoyance at his brother's demand—the fact that Lawrence has _made the demand in the first place_ … All these things hit home in an instant as Alexander realizes the two men must have reached an understanding beforehand. He clearly misgauged just how candidly they have discussed George and Alexander's sex life. His own surprise notwithstanding, there is _no way in hell_ Lawrence would ask to take such liberties without prior permission.

Which means at some point, perhaps during the past week, Lawrence _negotiated with George for Alexander's mouth_.

And without bothering to ask Alexander's thoughts on the matter—because when does he _ever_ ask—George has already agreed. Leaving only this demand, and the coiling expectation of the two men flanking Alexander.

It's more than a little fucked up that the prospect is already revving his engine. But then, that sentiment easily sums up most of the things George does to him. What's one more depravity in a growing list of kinks Alexander never would have discovered on his own? Why _shouldn't_ he enjoy choking on his boyfriend's brother's cock, while George watches Lawrence use him?

" _Alexander_." George's voice pitches lower now. Stern. Commanding him to motion because he has hesitated too long. "Don't make me look like an ungracious host. Show Lawrence how welcome he is to _anything_ that is mine."

The words ignite a spike of delicious humiliation, and _now_ Alexander moves. Clumsy in his enthusiastic scramble off the couch. Lawrence follows him with sharp eyes and faces forward, so that when Alexander drops to the floor he is kneeling directly before their guest.

He expects Lawrence to talk. George likes to take him apart with words—surely Lawrence will do the same.

But Lawrence simply spreads his legs wide, making space for Alexander between them, and slouches comfortably into the couch cushions. Waiting. Obviously content to let Alexander do as he pleases without additional commentary.

Alexander licks his lips and scoots forward between parted thighs. It's only as he gets close that he realizes Lawrence is already hard, straining against the inseam of dark dress pants. Tentatively, Alexander reaches out to touch him, stroking along the length and earning a sharp inhale. A pleased smile touches Alexander's face and he rubs harder, palming through slippery fabric, grinding and gripping the stiff erection.

By the time he lets go, Lawrence's cock is tenting his fly instead, a rigid jut that makes Alexander salivate. He hasn't even taken Lawrence out yet, and he can tell the challenge before him will leave his jaw and throat aching.

"He asked for your _mouth_ , you disobedient slut." George's words strikes him like a cannonade, low and commanding. Alexander's eyes slip shut just for a moment as a pulse of heat leaves him aching to be touched.

He doesn't dare turn and look at George. Doing so will only result in further admonitions to _focus_ , perhaps even punishment for being defiant. But he can feel possessive eyes following every move as he sets both hands on Lawrence's thighs and leans forward and down.

Alexander mouths at the head of Lawrence's cock without opening his pants.

" _Oh_." It's a soft sound. Beautiful in Lawrence's encouraging baritone. Alexander drops his jaw and takes more. The smooth fabric is a strange sensation across his tongue, even as his saliva dampens the material and he tastes a first bitter hint of precome. He takes as much as he can before easing off, then ducks his head lower to nuzzle beneath the prominent bulge. Savoring the musky, masculine scent as he rubs his cheek along the trapped length.

When he sits back up he can see Lawrence's hands tightly clenched, one resting helplessly atop the middle cushion, the other gripping the arm of the couch so hard the knuckles have gone white. No pretense at being unaffected, Alexander notes with satisfaction. He's barely begun, and his efforts are yielding gratifying results.

Rather than continue to tease, Alexander reaches for Lawrence's belt. The buckle clicks as the black leather slides free, and then button and zipper are an even easier matter to attend. Within seconds Alexander is pulling Lawrence's rigid length into the open air.

Even at the risk of George's disapproval, Alexander has to stop for a moment to savor this. Lawrence's cock is exactly as gorgeous as he predicted. Thick and flushed and already slick. The perfect weight along Alexander's palm. The perfect silky texture when he gives a measured stroke.

Then, before George can chide him for stalling, Alexander puts his mouth to work.

There is something absolutely delightful in doing this for Lawrence. The fact that this is _someone new_ , a puzzle to be solved with no information besides the gasps and moans and jerky movements confirming what Lawrence likes best. And yet also not _entirely_ new. There are surreal similarities in the way Lawrence tastes, the way he feels sliding across Alexander's tongue, the way the blunt head nudges at the back of his throat and makes it difficult not to gag even though Alexander is the one steering this ride.

He uses every clever trick he's ever honed, tasting and exploring without embarrassment. He takes Lawrence into his mouth—into his throat—only to withdraw completely and nuzzle at his balls instead. Tasting here too, lingering when the effort earns a jolt of Lawrence's hips and an audible curse. Brushing his nose along smooth skin as he withdraws.

He strokes and sucks and swallows, and all the while he is just as aware of George's regard as he is of Lawrence's reactions. More than anything he wants to please George. To show him how good Alexander can be, how talented and obedient.

How welcome Lawrence is to take, because Alexander will not balk at being used this way if it's what George wants to see.

Alexander is honestly impressed with how long Lawrence simply sits back and enjoys the ride. George has enormous stamina, but he is also a bossy and impatient man. He never allows Alexander to remain in control for more than a few minutes before grabbing hold and wresting command away. Alexander doesn't mind—he loves to know he can make George desperate—almost as much as he loves having his throat violently fucked. But there is something satisfying in _this_ too. In the chance to show off skills he has put a great deal of effort into practicing. In pleasuring Lawrence at his own pace, learning the contours of his cock so well he would know it with his eyes closed.

Every second that passes must bring Lawrence closer to the edge, judging by the way he is panting fast and shallow now, the way his hands clench and unclench on empty air. Alexander wonders if Lawrence doesn't realize he is welcome to touch.

He doesn't know how long he's been on his knees. It feels like an eternity. His jaw aches and his lips feel swollen as they stretch around the girth of Lawrence's cock. He's growing tired, but he _will not_ rush the experience simply to make this easier on himself. Any amount of discomfort is worth it for the satisfaction of knowing George is pleased and impressed with him. Alexander does not falter.

Eventually Lawrence's impressive willpower gives out. Alexander has begun to wonder if he will for once be able to finish an entire blow job on his own terms, but of course this is a foolish aspiration. Some invisible switch finally flips, and powerful hands rise from the couch and reaching for him.

Lawrence's grip is impossibly strong as he wraps both hands around Alexander's head and forces him forward—forces his cock past parted lips and down, down, _down_ his throat. Alexander's body resists, instinctively and noisily, but thankfully he has no leverage to get away. Lawrence's thick cock fills him, shoving deep, cutting off his air.

Alexander's eyes sting and blur with sudden tears. _Fuck_ , Lawrence might be even thicker than George. He can't seem to get his spasming gag reflex under control, even as Lawrence holds him completely immobile. Trapping him on the unforgiving length. Keeping him exactly where he belongs.

He has barely managed to still his helpless reactions before Lawrence drags him up again. Then back down. No longer content simply to fill his throat, but fucking his face in earnest. Guiding Alexander forcefully up and down the merciless length of cock, without apparent care for the way every movement makes Alexander shudder and choke.

This too seems to go on forever. Alexander can barely breathe, even in the scant moments when there isn't a cock down his throat. He's crying as his face crushes repeatedly to Lawrence's soft belly, his eyes clenching shut against the scrape of fabric and zipper. There is so much strength in Lawrence's guiding hands—so much power in every drag and push.

There's no warning before the end. One second there is only the vicious in-and-out making Alexander choke and splutter. The next Lawrence forces him downward and impales Alexander with the entire demanding length. Lawrence holds him there, spending deep and ignoring Alexander's efforts to jerk back and _breathe_.

When Lawrence at last lets go, Alexander rises off his cock with a desperate gasp. Air hits his deprived lungs and he shudders—twists and folds in on himself—shaking as he struggles to get his body back under control. His own erection has grown to a desperate need during the endless sequence of rough use, and his face is a mess.

"Incredible." Lawrence sounds breathless and winded.

He sounds _utterly satisfied_.

Alexander's chest glows hot at the praise. He gradually regains control of himself, steadies his breathing, uncurls from his protective huddle. He does not bother to wipe the mess from his face as he looks up into Lawrence's eyes. Better to let himself be seen, to let Lawrence appreciate the mess he's made. Judging by the way Lawrence's mouth hangs ajar and pupils dilate, the view is very much appreciated.

Lawrence stares at him for a very long time. Then turns his head to address George with a twitch of a smile. "Your boy might possess the most talented mouth I've ever experienced."

And _fuck_ , never mind how hard Alexander is trying to keep his focus on Lawrence, he _has to_ look at George now. He finds a quietly delighted smile on George's face, proprietary pleasure in the way he takes in Alexander's exhausted form. Stiff arousal tents gray dress pants, promising more rough use to come.

"Well, my boy?" This time George's tone is teasing. "What do you say when someone gives you a compliment?"

Alexander swallows, throat aching, and turns to Lawrence once more. "Thank you, sir." His voice sounds scratchy, and his knees are beginning to hurt.

"Oh, _George_." Lawrence is looking at Alexander again, devouring him with a greedy gaze.

He continues to stare up at Lawrence even when George rises from the couch. Peripheral vision only lets him track George's movements so far, but he continues to kneel at Lawrence's feet. Obedient, if not entirely patient. Lawrence belatedly puts his softening cock away, paying no mind to the mess, the clothes that will definitely need to be laundered before he packs his suitcase. Lawrence does up his fly, smiling at Alexander all the while.

Alexander hasn't stopped listening to George's footsteps behind him, so he doesn't startle when powerful hands grab hold of him. George does not guide him to his feet, but rather manhandles him to the massive coffee table that fills the center of the living room. The surface of the table is low—perfect for bending Alexander over with knees on the floor and thighs shoved against the beveled wooden edge—and this is exactly what George does.

It's a familiar position. George has wrestled him down onto this table innumerable times, and Alexander doesn't fight as his sweats are dragged down his thighs. His bare ass registers a quick squeeze of George's hand, and then—without warning or prep—something blunt and slick nudges at his entrance. The intrusion wedges past the tight rim of his ass, sliding deep too quickly.

Alexander breathes a hurt sound, even as his body instinctively adjusts. He is facing Lawrence—still being watched with the same sharp focus—and he can't seem to look away, even as his attention is more and more absorbed up by the lube-slick cock shoving inside him.

There are no words exchanged as George proceeds to fuck him. Alexander grunts at the immediate and unforgiving rhythm when George thrusts and withdraws and thrusts again. His breath comes faster as he is taken, pleasure igniting along his nerves every time George nails his prostate. The pain of going directly from nothing to an entire cock inside him does not last long, accustomed as Alexander's body is to being claimed however and whenever George wants. But he still finds himself shaking apart as George uses him roughly, mercilessly, pounding into him as though one of them has something to prove.

After a very short while, George gathers both of Alexander's wrists and traps them at the small of his back, holding them easily in one enormous hand. The weight he leans there is uncomfortable, but provides extra leverage as the roll of his hips grows even more brutal. Alexander is panting hard now. Pleasure and need twist violently inside him.

All the while Lawrence watches. Riveted. Alexander cannot bring himself to look away. He meets Lawrence's eyes helplessly, thrilling at the indignity of being seen this way. He must look pathetic. Used and exhausted, eyes red from crying, face a sticky mess, and now he is proving himself an absolute wanton. Panting and moaning like the needy slut he is, sobbing when the pleasure is too much. He twists against George's hold and can't gain so much as a centimeter of freedom.

God he's a wreck. He's so turned on his entire body hurts. He is desperate for release.

He startles when George leans forward without slowing his rhythm. Alexander gasps at the sudden extra weight along his back, and at George's hot breath teasing the shell of Alexander's ear with an unexpected observation.

"I suggest you _do not_ come yet, my boy."

_Suggest_? What kind of word is that? Alexander is not accustomed to suggestions when it comes to sex. Commands bring him alive. Orders and demands and expectations that guide him to fulfill George's every wish, no matter how messy or painful or depraved. He cannot remember George ever simply _suggesting_ a course of action once he has his cock in Alexander, and the incongruity leaves his head spinning.

"Sir?" He whimpers in confusion.

"You won't be punished if you come." George presses the words to Alexander's throat, follows them with a hard bite that makes him squirm. Impressive that the words come out so steady, considering the vigorous and increasingly fast pace of the thrusts jolting Alexander against the coffee table. "But if you hold out, I will make it worth your while later."

What new and confusing torture is this? Alexander has never once chosen delayed gratification of his own free will. George likes to torment him by denying him orgasms sometimes, yes. Likes to edge him and torture him and keep him on the verge for hours at a time. But telling Alexander to choose? Promising that if he can somehow hold himself back there will be a reward for him after the fact?

Alexander can't imagine what such a reward might entail. He can't think at all through the pounding pleasure suffusing his body in this moment, and he gives a shaky sob.

He is desperate to come. George's cock feels so goddamn good inside him. It fills him completely, riding into him with relentless passion as George's breath grows shallow and fast. Now George is panting almost as loudly as Alexander, biting bruises into his neck, his shoulder, his back.

George must be close now. Alexander knows his tells well enough to be sure of it, regardless of other distractions.

And of course Lawrence is still watching. Curious. Expectant. Hungry. Taking all this in like a connoisseur of fine things and savoring every fragment of information.

Alexander's face burns. It's humiliating to be seen like this. To be helpless beneath George's hands and know someone is watching them.

A wave of pleasure crests, and Alexander squeezes his eyes shut, dropping his face against the table and clenching his jaw around a fractured sob. It takes every scrap of willpower he possesses to fight back his orgasm in that moment. God, he wants to come. His entire body is on fire, his ass hot around George's increasingly frantic thrusts, and he can taste the satisfaction just within reach. It would be so easy to let it wash over him and carry him out of his own head.

But somehow, against all the odds and every selfish instinct, he resists. He keeps the precipice at bay, staying strong even as George releases his wrists and drops forward all along his back. Stilling deep in Alexander's body with a graveled and rumbling groan. Teeth dig in _hard_ at the juncture of Alexander's neck and shoulders, and it hurts so much his hands scramble against the smooth surface of the table, helplessly seeking purchase. He sobs when George's hands cover both of his, pinning them down, threading their fingers together. Grounding him through the final protracted stuttering of George's hips.

Alexander forces his lungs to keep functioning, breathing out as George finishes inside him. Gasping as the thick cock withdraws from his body and slickness begins to leak down Alexander's thighs.

"Good boy," George murmurs.

Alexander shivers as the words of praise warm him straight to his soul.


	5. Chapter 5

Alexander is not, by any definition, _calm_ when he and George retire to the privacy of their enormous bedroom. He still aches with arousal, still craves his thwarted orgasm. He still keenly feels the need for a release he has denied himself, and all the while George has given no hint what his reward might be.

He knows not to ask—there's no better way to prolong the impatient wait.

At least by the time he has showered and brushed his teeth and climbed naked into bed, the worst of the desperation has faded. His hard-on has eased back to something he can ignore. But his jaw and throat remain sore from his exertions, and his ass throbs delightfully, and neither of these things helps quiet his mind in anticipation of sleep.

Despite these lingering distractions, he sighs a contented sound when George snuggles warm along his back. Alexander's own personal furnace, making it impossible for any chill to reach him. George smells so fucking good, and his mouth is soft when he nuzzles Alexander's throat affectionately. One arm slips heavily over Alexander's hip, around his middle, curling tight and snugging him close. Making him pleasantly aware of every line and contour of George's body, from muscular chest to soft stomach to powerful thighs.

Tucking himself contentedly in place, Alexander asks in a soft, gravelly voice, "So, you and Lawrence, huh?" He doesn't plan to say the word 'incest', no matter how curious he is to suss out the shape of the brothers' understanding. There could be complicated undercurrents or defensiveness to watch out for, or perhaps they don't acknowledge the closeness between them.

Even this question is a bit of a gamble, but it's also vague. It leaves plenty of room to maneuver if George is uncomfortable sharing such things. It would be the height of hypocrisy for George to refuse him answers _now_ , after handing him over to be used in so careless and carnal a way, but Alexander will take what he can get.

Thankfully, George's chuckle a moment later carries no hint of disapproval. "Yes. Lawrence and me. At least, in a manner of speaking."

Alexander absorbs this nuance. "So you two don't…"

"Not really." George shrugs, and Alexander feels the gesture against his back. "We _did_ once. A very long time ago, when we were both younger men. It was more curiosity than true interest."

"Oh." Alexander chews on his lower lip for a time. "And… tonight?"

"Tonight I wanted to see him touch you."

"What if I weren't attracted to him?"

George's laugh huffs quiet and hot across his skin. "Would that have mattered, Alexander? Truly?"

He shivers. "No."

"Mmm." George nuzzles at his throat again. "It pleases me, though. That you want him. And _he_ has certainly enjoyed your attentions and hospitality this week."

Alexander's face flushes, equal parts embarrassment at being so transparent and delight at the thought of Lawrence coveting him _all week_ before asking for permission to touch him. He wonders—but does not ask—if tonight was the first time of multiple. Will Lawrence visit them again? Will they skip the lengthy flirtation next time? Will George insist on being there to retain control, or will he give Lawrence his blessing to take Alexander whenever and however he pleases?

There is a world of possibilities, and all of them make Alexander tremble with anticipation.

"What is it, my boy?" George asks, a little bit pointed, a little bit teasing.

Alexander collects his scattered thoughts with difficulty. "Tonight. Giving me to Lawrence." A pause. A swallow past the sensation of self-consciousness. "Are you going to do it again?"

George is silent awhile. "Do you _want_ him again?"

Alexander cannot believe his own brazenness when he retorts, "Does that matter?" After all, when has Alexander _ever_ refused George anything?

The question draws a louder laugh from George, and a tightening of the arm around Alexander's waist. So much possessiveness in the way George holds him, and Alexander's heart swells.

"You know me too well, Alexander." George ducks forward, not nuzzling this time, but catching sensitive skin between his teeth and biting down hard. Sucking a new bruise alongside a scattering of other marks, some of them recent and others fading. When he lets go and speaks again, his voice is gravel-rough. "You're right, of course. If Lawrence wants you, I have no intention of denying him."

Alexander shivers and sucks in a hard breath as this admission hits home. Blunt and relentless, and completely unapologetic.

"Do you have a problem with that?" George murmurs, lips brushing Alexander's pulse beneath his jaw.

" _No_ , sir," Alexander gasps, helpless and honest and utterly open. "No problem. Whatever you want. Whatever _he_ wants. Please let him have me." God he hopes Lawrence asks for him again. How is he supposed to satisfy himself with only one encounter, while George teases him with the suggestion of _more_?

George's answer is barely above a growl. " _Good_."


	6. Chapter 6

Little as Alexander expects to sleep, he drifts off surprisingly quickly in George's arms. His dreams are malleable things, scenery constantly shifting around him, George always close by. George in the full battle armor of his most expensive suit and tie, looking ready to take on the world. George in the bulky gray sweater Alexander bought him for Christmas last year. George in his worn t-shirt and sweatpants, lounging around at home in the middle of summer.

George smiling at him like Alexander has just done or said something unimaginably clever.

He wakes to imperfect darkness, a slant of streetlight sneaking in through the window. It's the middle of the night—he's sure of it even without glancing at the clock on his nightstand—and it takes him a fraction of a second to realize what woke him.

The mattress is dipping with new weight. George remains warm along his back, as _Lawrence_ slides into the bed on Alexander's other side.

"What—?" He jolts in surprise, abruptly alert. George must have been awake already, because he doesn't startle at Alexander's sudden stuttering movement. Only grips him tighter as Lawrence eases forward into his space.

Lawrence twines forceful fingers in Alexander's hair and takes his mouth in a brutal kiss that leaves his senses swimming.

He doesn't fight—he has _no intention_ of fighting—but he also has no leverage to get away. George holding him from behind is an inescapable force. And now, all along his front there is the hot press of Lawrence's powerful bulk, trapping him between two men who could easily overpower him singlehandedly.

No surprise his cock immediately begins to stiffen, especially given his prolonged forbearance.

Lawrence is naked. He is also hard. Fucking hell, Alexander should have realized this was their intention the second George asked him not to come.

He is short of breath by the time the kiss ends. Panting with arousal, shaking with the helpless force of anticipation snaking through his body. "S—Sir?"

Lawrence's teeth find the base of his throat and Alexander wriggles helplessly.

"You can fight us if you need to." George murmurs this directly in his ear. "If any of this is too much. You don't have to behave. I promise we won't let you go."

The words should not ground him. This is a vow to overpower Alexander if he cannot remain still. A declaration that they intend to take whatever they please from him, and his cooperation is not a factor.

But instead of alarming him, the words settle Alexander in his own skin.

His voice comes out breathy when he asks, "What are you going to do to me?" 

Lawrence's pupils are dilated wide in the darkness, and there is fierce intensity there. Something glorious and needy. An honesty that makes Alexander's lungs hitch.

"Didn't George tell you?" Lawrence asks in a teasing tone. "I always intended to make use of more than just your mouth. My brother has given his unqualified approval. I can do anything I want to you, Alexander. And tonight I want very much to fuck you."

" _Oh_ ," Alexander moans. He should not have needed to ask. He should have known the second Lawrence climbed into bed and laid hands on him.

"You'll be good for him, I hope," George murmurs fondly. "It's only right. A brother should share his toys."

"Oh, _fuck_." Alexander's words are more whimper than moan this time.

" _Especially_ ," George adds with a nip at Alexander's earlobe, "when his favorite toy is a shameless little slut."

"I'm not _shameless_ ," Alexander protests, voice rising to almost a squeak when Lawrence pinches one of his nipples.

"Aren't you?" George's arm shifts, slides lower, and then a broad and familiar hand palms Alexander's rigid cock. "Didn't you go to your knees for him without a thought? Didn't you offer yourself without hesitation?"

"You wanted me to." Alexander gasps, grinding forward into George's palm and arching against Lawrence. "You _told me to_."

"You were panting for it before I _ever_ gave you permission." The possessive tone echoes through the dark bedroom. Heavy with truth. Taunting and all-knowing. "You wanted him. You've been gagging for my brother's cock all week."

There's no point arguing otherwise. Just like there's no point apologizing. George is clearly neither jealous nor angry—he can hardly claim to feel betrayed when he went to such lengths to engineer these circumstances in the first place—and in any case, Alexander _isn't_ sorry.

He doesn't make a habit of lying to the man he loves.

Alexander shivers at the sudden chill when Lawrence throws the blankets aside—though it's impossible to feel truly cold pressed between two walls of perfect heat. He gasps when Lawrence grips his thighs and roughly forces his legs apart, slotting confidently into the space. It should be an awkward angle, Alexander on his side and Lawrence forcing his way forward, and yet somehow they fit perfectly together.

The naked cock that nudges at his entrance is slick with lube, and there's no time to brace for the intrusion before the thick head forces its way inside him. Alexander is still sore from George's rough pounding only a few short hours ago, and he chokes a hurt sound as his aching rim resists the cock wedging incrementally deeper.

"Does that hurt, Alexander?" George asks.

"No," he lies—then cries out when Lawrence calls his bluff by ramming forward hard and fast, impaling him in one brutal thrust.

" _Does. That. Hurt._ " George repeats in an ominous voice. Not truly a question, and yet it's obvious he expects an answer.

" _Yes_." Alexander arches helplessly between the two men, his ass instinctively clenching, his every sense taut. "It's too much!"

He can feel a smirk press to his shoulder, followed by a more purposeful brush of lips as George says, "I told you I'd make it worth your while to _wait_." A brief sting of teeth and then, "Now. Stop being rude and _tell Lawrence_ how his cock feels inside you."

Alexander blinks to focus and find Lawrence's face, so close he takes up Alexander's entire field of vision.

Then Alexander takes a shaky breath and blurts, "It's overwhelming. It's good and it hurts and— Jesus, you're so fucking _big_. You— _Ah_!" His words cut off with a cry as Lawrence gives a playful roll of his hips. Already the pain is fading and making way for shocky pleasure.

That pleasure only mounts when Lawrence draws his hips back—dragging his cock along Alexander's prostate—and then shoves forward again. Fills him again. Jostles him in George's arms. Another moment and Lawrence is claiming a second kiss, plundering Alexander's mouth with all the confidence of a man who is welcome to do and take whatever he pleases.

"Thank you, sir," Alexander gasps when the kiss breaks, not even sure which brother he's addressing.

Lawrence fucks him for a long time. Leisurely. Steady. His body adjusts to the deep thrusts, the aching stretch, the continuous rhythm. Lightning courses along his nerves every time Lawrence nails his prostate, and he writhes helplessly, unable to speed Lawrence's pace. Unable to seek additional friction between the two men holding him.

He has come without a hand on him before, but only when it's George fucking him. Good as Lawrence is, he is not George, doesn't know Alexander's body with all their complicated years of intimacy.

"Please," he begs, increasingly desperate as Lawrence continues to restrain him and work him over—as George continues to hold him still for Lawrence's steady assault. "God, please, I need to come, _please, sir_ —"

"Are you sure?" George's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, even as his hand curls around Alexander's cock in a hold tight enough to be painful. "You might regret finishing so soon."

Alexander chokes a shattered laugh and tosses his head in denial. "I won't." He's been on edge for hours, This is not 'soon'. He has needed this since the moment George ordered him to his knees in the living room. "I won't regret it, I swear I won't, please!"

"Didn't I tell you Lawrence?" George asks with improbable calm. "He is _by far_ the neediest slut you will ever taste. Aren't you, Alexander?"

" _Yes_." He tries to thrust into the circle of George's fist, sobbing when the motion tightens his ass around Lawrence's ceaseless thrusts. "Yes, for you, sir. I'm your slut, I've been so good, please finish it—"

George gives a firm stroke and Alexander cries out. A second and he clenches his jaw around a sob. A third and he shudders and orgasms, spilling slick and hot over George's fingers and Lawrence's stomach.

Lawrence does not come yet. He doesn't even pause in his forceful, rutting rhythm. As Alexander's body grows hypersensitive following the aftershocks of his orgasm, Lawrence _does not stop_.

Alexander doesn't mind. He enjoys a side of pain with his pleasure, and he's well accustomed to being fucked long after his own satisfaction. He will ride out this discomfort, welcome and familiar, and both men will be pleased.

After another absolute eon—George restless at his back and Lawrence fucking him from the front—at last Lawrence's cock presses in all the way to the hilt and stills.

But to Alexander's consternation, Lawrence still does not come. Confusion brings his brows together as he peers into Lawrence's face. He sees unmistakable pleasure there, but also improbable control. Lawrence should be half out of his mind by now, but instead he looks collected and steady. Cool, even. As though he is contemplating the merits of an excellent wine list and not impaling his brother's boyfriend on the inescapable length of his cock.

George moves behind Alexander, and before he can ask what's going on, he feels the slick nudge of fingers at the straining rim of his ass.

"What the _fuck_?" he gasps, jerking instinctively forward, wedging himself more firmly on the length already seated inside him. The fingers at his entrance spread slickness around generously, and then one of them presses in alongside Lawrence's cock.

The sound Alexander breathes is quiet, but also not quite human, a breathless and shaky choke of hurt. The digit wriggles deeper, forcing its way inside of him.

"Oh, fuck," Alexander gasps when a second finger painstakingly joins the first. "You can't—"

Without withdrawing the two fingers from Alexander's ass, George clamps his free hand over Alexander's mouth, silencing the protest.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" George demands in a low tone that sends electricity the entire length of Alexander's spine.

He shakes his head the best he can, a 'no' without the luxury of his voice.

"And do I require your permission to do as I please?"

He shakes his head again. His eyes are watering, pain and arousal heightened by an ecstatic shiver of humiliation. Those slick fingers fuck all the way into him, catching at the final knuckle, and it doesn't matter that Lawrence is currently motionless. It's still an agony of too-much-too-much-too-much. When the fingers spread inside him, Alexander screams into George's palm.

He should have listened when George warned him an orgasm might be a mistake. He should have realized they were nowhere near finished. George's fingers would still hurt, but the pain would be overwhelmed by frantic pleasure.

A keen escapes Alexander's throat when George brings his fingers back together and curls them—maneuvering clever and sure—going straight for Alexander's prostate and pressing hard enough to ignite sparks behind his eyelids.

Alexander doesn't remember closing his eyes. He can't think, can't process, can't do anything but _feel_ as George's fingers stroke skillfully inside him. Every touch ignites new arousal in his spent and exhausted body.

Lawrence still does not move. The man must be made of stern stuff to maintain the illusion that he is unaffected by the helpless clenching of Alexander's ass. Even Lawrence's breathing remains relatively steady—at least compared to Alexander's shallow panting as he struggles to get sufficient air into his lungs.

George's hand falls away from his mouth a moment later, curling gently at the base of Alexander's throat. George's pinky brushes against his sternum, a surreal counterpoint to the relentless way his other hand continues to work Alexander open.

Alexander has no doubts whatsoever about where this is going, and there's no point begging George to stop. Hell, he doesn't even want to try. There is agony filling him, yes, but there is also dangerous arousal in Alexander's belly. There is the flawless sensation of Lawrence inside him, waiting with incomprehensible patience. There is his own dick taking a renewed interest in the proceedings.

And there is George. Touching him. Expecting things from him. Trusting Alexander to let this happen. Contrary to all better sense, Alexander _wants_ George's cock in him alongside Lawrence. He wants to prove he can take it, and never mind his fear the two men will tear him apart.

With grudging slowness, Alexander's body loosens, adjusting to the combination of thick cock and blunt fingers. His breath remains shocky and uneven through the endless ordeal. It's both a help and a torment the way both brothers touch him while George continues to work him over. Bites and kisses scatter across his skin and claim his mouth. Strong hands stroke his cock, pinch and tease his nipples, grasp him hard enough to leave bruises everywhere.

More than once Lawerence's hips stutter, momentarily breaking the stillness, jolting the hard length deep inside him.

By the time George forces a third slick finger forward, Alexander is long past coherence. He sobs and jerks against Lawrence's chest, ducking his head, just as helpless to get away as before.

" _Beautiful_." Lawrence presses the word into Alexander's skin like a benediction.

"Mmm," George agrees, smooth tone at odds with his rough touch.

Lawrence cups Alexander's chin in one hand, curling fingers along his jaw and coaxing his head up. "Look at me, Alexander."

With difficulty, Alexander obeys. His view of Lawrence's face is wet and blurry, and he finds it difficult to focus beyond the vicious fulness of George's fingers moving inside him alongside Lawrence's girth.

Lawrence smiles, wide and bright through the darkness, and with his free hand he thumbs the tears from Alexander's face. "I had no idea, my dear boy. George told me, but he didn't do you justice."

"Told you what?" Alexander pants. He is shaking with exertion, feverish between the two pinning bodies.

Impossibly, Lawrence's smile spreads even wider. "That you are gorgeous when you cry."

Alexander's face flushes with feeling, and suddenly he is afraid his heart will burst. The idea, irrefutable with this pronouncement, of George telling Lawrence every intimacy he and Alexander share… The thought of him praising Alexander to his brother…

A shiver courses the length of Alexander's spine, and it has nothing to do with pain or discomfort.

It's a relief when Lawrence kisses him. An excuse to close his eyes, and to pretend for a moment that his every emotion is _not_ on transparent display. He opens for the commanding thrust of tongue, arches eagerly against Lawrence's powerful chest. Trembles when Lawrence pulls his hair and bites hard at his lower lip.

"What do you say when someone pays you a compliment?" George punctuates the question with a forceful twist of his fingers.

" _Thank you, sir_ ," Alexander cries frantically. "Oh, _fuck_ , thank you!" It's as much a plea for George to stop as it is an attempt at obedience.

Unthinkably, George _does_ stop. In an unexpected instant his fingers are gone, slipping deftly from Alexander's body and leaving him bereft. Contrary creature that he is, Alexander immediately misses the torturous touch. But he freezes when something far larger than any of George's fingers nudges him. There is a shock of cold as George adds more lube, and then a cock presses hard against his straining rim.

Alexander holds as still as he can. His heart is beating so fast he thinks it might explode.

"Good boy," George soothes. And then reluctant muscles give way and the head of George's cock is inside him—wedging past his rim and oh, _god_ —it's too much. Alexander cries out, thrashes, only to be grabbed and steadied by powerful hands. Both men restrain him as George shoves forward and forward, deeper and deeper. Gradual and steady and unrelenting, forcing the entire thick length into Alexander's body alongside Lawrence's endlessly patient cock.

Alexander bites his lower lip so hard he draws blood in his effort to _take it_ instead of begging them to stop. He doesn't _want_ them to stop, doesn't want their inescapable hold to disappear. But he is also scared he can't take this—that it will be too much. His breath comes fast and shallow, and he squirms beneath their hands, unable to prevent his body from trying to escape.

His own arousal is back in full force, but even this hurts, spent and sated as he is.

By the time George bottoms out inside him, Alexander is certain he will split in two. He throbs, an agony so deep and intimate he can focus on nothing else. He sobs noisily when George stills, and _fuck_ , the stillness is not an improvement. It leaves room for excess awareness of unfamiliar pain—of the fact that he is taking _so much_ —of his ass straining around double the girth to which he is accustomed. He can't escape. He can only accept it, and be grateful for what George and Lawrence are giving him.

He's crying when George nuzzles at his pulse point and says, "You're doing so well, my boy."

"How does it feel?" Lawrence asks, punctuating the point with a quick peck to Alexander's bitten lips.

"How does it _feel_?" Alexander echoes incredulously, sounding a little hysterical. "How the fuck do you _think_ it feels, having two dicks crammed up your—" His rant cuts short on a wounded shriek when George's hand slips low and grabs his balls, giving a punishing squeeze.

The grip loosens soon enough, though George's enormous hand continues to cup him meaningfully.

" _Behave_ , Alexander," George says in an incongruously soft voice. "Do you want my brother to think you're an ungrateful brat? Do you want him to leave?"

"No," Alexander whispers, rubbing back deliberately against George's chest. "No, god, I don't want that. I want you to use me. Both of you. I want to make you feel good, oh fuck, please don't stop."

"Then _answer his question_ , Alexander."

"Question?" He doesn't remember a question, and his ability to think blanks out at a second crushing squeeze of George's fist. He chokes down a scream and shakes his head hard, finally manages to gasp, " _What question_ , I don't know what you're talking about!"

The grip loosens just enough, and then Lawrence repeats in a disconcertingly kind voice, "How does it feel?"

Oh. That's right. _This_ question. Alexander's salty retort has long since evaporated, replaced by a renewed desperation to please, and he draws a shaky breath.

"It hurts," he confesses bluntly. "It hurts _so fucking much_. Worse than anything George has ever done to me before. How the fuck are you _both inside me_?" He's back to sounding hysterical again, but this time there is no hint of rebellion in the words. Only shattered honesty and awe.

Even now, confessing to absolute agony, Alexander is so turned on he can scarcely cope. Arousal burns hot, a fierce ember beneath his skin, racing with his heart. George's hand on his balls is an extra torment, because it's so close to where Alexander needs to be touched.

His breath catches when Lawrence moves without warning—withdrawing almost entirely from Alexander's body—stopping with the tip of his cock catching maddeningly at Alexander's rim. Again there is stillness. Cruel, harsh, taunting stillness as Alexander trembles helpless between the two men.

"Well?" George's voice is alarmingly gentle now. "Go on, my boy. Ask for what you need."

Alexander shudders and closes his eyes, because oh, this is going to be exquisitely, deliciously painful. He inhales as steadily as he can and forces the request past a tight throat. "Please fuck me."

Lawrence does not hold back. No sooner has Alexander finished speaking than Lawrence fucks forward. It is not an easy fit, not smooth, not careful. It is a brutal shove of rigid heat, forcing forward alongside George's cock. Filling Alexander and chasing the air from his lungs.

The second Lawrence's body settles flush between Alexander's thighs, _George_ withdraws, a perfect repeat of fresh torment. George adds more slick, then immediately ruts forward again. Fucking deep and splitting Alexander apart.

They take turns exactly like this, for a brutal eternity. Eventually the slowness melts away and they move with even more merciless purpose. All the while Alexander is shaking between them, crying out when they ram into him too hard and fast. He can barely breathe through the onslaught of sensation, and he can no longer behave. His own movements are pathetic and pointless attempts to free himself, easily thwarted by powerful hands.

Through every ruthless second, they continue to touch him. Sometimes pleasurable, sometimes painful, always _good_. Palming his cock only to grip hard at the base and prevent him from coming. Biting his throat, shoulders, chest and then sucking deep bruises into the skin, leaving a patchwork of possessiveness. Caressing his nipples only to pinch and _twist_ a moment later, barely distracting him at all from the pounding he is taking.

In his fleeting moments of coherence, Alexander wonders how the hell they can still be fucking him. He's lost count of the increasingly rough thrusts battering his insides, can't even guess how long they've been using him. His own orgasm is within reach, kept repeatedly at bay only by dint of cruel intervention.

George knows him too well—always recognizes when Alexander is close, and knows exactly what kind of pain to administer to keep him from tumbling over the edge.

Alexander does not beg to come this time. He won't make the same mistake twice.

It can't last forever. Eventually George and Lawrence begin to falter in their shared and careful rhythm. Their hips stutter, and sometimes they both pull out together—sometimes they shove their cocks forward simultaneously, making Alexander keen and writhe. Always they hold him tightly, chasing their pleasure in his aching body, panting against his skin as they continue to manhandle him.

Alexander has never felt agony quite so perfect.

Both men are praising him now, breathless and inarticulate, and Alexander isn't even listening. He can't focus on anything past his own mounting need and the pounding in his ass. In this moment, there is nothing else.

At last, when George and Lawrence seem finally to be close, George curls his hand more gently around Alexander's cock. The circle of fingers is the exact firmness to work Alexander into a renewed frenzy, and he sobs at the stimulation, at the promise in George's touch.

"Go ahead, Alexander." The benediction comes from Lawrence, but it's as good as law. Alexander whimpers and thrusts into the tight circle of Washington's grip, pleasure mounting fast and sudden, ricocheting inside him.

George gives a stroke over his entire length, and it's too much. Alexander's orgasm rises and crests, crashing over his senses like a tidal wave and washing the rest of the world away.


	7. Chapter 7

For all the desperate heights George has taken him to in their years together, Alexander has never passed out during sex.

Somehow, he is not surprised to blink his way conscious, momentarily disoriented but quick to get his bearings. It's still the middle of the night, though a faint glow casts gold across the room from George's bedside lamp on its lowest setting. Alexander is lying on his stomach, practically on top of a warm body—Lawrence's body—tucked all along the man's side with a muscular arm around his waist and his cheek on Lawrence's shoulder.

Lawrence is watching him at close range, and Alexander peers owlishly into his eyes.

"Where's George?" he asks, and the question comes out a little groggy.

Lawrence tucks a strand of hair behind Alexander's ear with a soft smile. "Taking a shower. I wanted you to myself for a few minutes."

"Oh." There's no reason that assertion should make Alexander's face heat or his heart pound faster, but there is something giddy in him at the knowledge that Lawrence isn't bored with him now that the sex is over. That Lawrence wants to stay close, at least for a little while. That Lawrence is _holding him_ like something worthy and precious and good. If he sounds a little breathless with that single syllable, and can't think of anything else to say, well. Surely Lawrence won't take it the wrong way.

Lawrence _must_ take it well, because his smile widens a charming fraction. "I enjoyed myself enormously tonight. I hope you did too."

" _Yes_ ," Alexander breathes. Even without moving he is vividly aware of the deep-seated pain throbbing with every heartbeat. His ass is sore as hell, and he will be feeling this for days. He wonders if they made him bleed. He wonders if he even cares about that. "Jesus, you two destroyed me. How long have you been planning this?"

"Since before George invited me to stay," Lawrence confesses, an unmistakable glint of mischief sparking in his eyes.

Somehow Alexander is not surprised. George always has been alarmingly thorough. And if he and Lawrence are so very close, why would he leave anything to chance?

"He wasn't exaggerating. You really will let him do _anything_ to you," Lawrence murmurs with a tinge of awe.

"Yes," Alexander says simply. He could try to explain, but there's no point. He doesn't have the right words for everything George is to him—for how completely Alexander trusts him—for the fact that George will never ask, will only ever _take_ , and Alexander will always, always, _always_ allow it.

He tries to imagine a line George might cross that would be too much—that might scare him away—and he draws a complete blank.

Lawrence does not need to know these things. Hell, it's possible George has already told him. Either way, Alexander has no need to struggle after words for something so vulnerable and private.

"He's given me blanket permission, you know. To touch you. No limitations, save the practicalities of geography. I can take you whenever and however I please, whether he is with us or not."

"Oh?" Alexander's body tenses, including his demolished ass, but it's pleasant. Anticipation rather than fear. And he's confident his far too honest face makes this fact abundantly clear.

"But the question remains," Lawrence says quietly. "How do _you_ feel about that, Alexander?"

"Are you asking _my_ permission?" It probably shouldn't feel like such a strange concept, but Alexander is not accustomed to being asked. _George_ does not ask. And George has given his blessing. Why should Lawrence require _Alexander's_ consent beyond that?

This is another sure proof that his relationship with George is, in many ways, fucked up beyond reason. Perhaps this is why Lawrence’s look is so serious—not precisely worried, and not at all judgmental—but somber as though he is trying to peer straight down to Alexander’s soul.

“Yes,” Lawrence says. “That’s precisely what I am asking.”

Alexander’s brow furrows as he parses a path through his own confusion. “What happens if I refuse?”

“Then our interactions will stay confined to moments that include George, and whatever you allow me through him. I will not seek you out alone.”

“And if I agree?”

A slow, sly sort of grin spreads across Lawrence’s face. “Then I suspect our paths will cross much more frequently from here on in. And we’ll have to see what sorts of trouble we can find together.”

There’s no doubt in Alexander’s mind what answer he will give, but he still stretches forward to kiss Lawrence instead of answering right away. His lower lip—split from when he bit down too hard in the heat of the moment—twinges but does not dissuade him. He is not stalling. Not even seeking new information so much as just… Wanting to savor this moment. This quiet intimacy in the still reeling afterglow.

When he eases back, Lawrence is watching him closely. Curiously.

“So then? What’s your verdict, Alexander?”

“I want it. I agree to… to… whatever the fuck this is. Whatever you want. If George is okay with it, I want it too.”

“I may desire to hurt you.”

Alexander barks an incredulous, almost playful laugh. “What? Worse than tonight?”

But instead of softening his expression, Lawrence arches one eyebrow high. “Perhaps. Does that scare you?”

Alexander inhales sharply and sincerely considers the question. George hurts him—often and sometimes intensely—but tonight has crossed a new threshold, and Alexander isn’t sure he can imagine what Lawrence might do to give him even greater pain.

“A little,” he admits. “But it doesn’t change my answer. I trust you. I want to be good for you.” And George will want that too, though Alexander does not say so. Lawrence certainly already knows, and even if he didn’t, he is not asking after _George’s_ feelings. He is asking what Alexander wants.

_Now_ Lawrence’s expression softens and he touches Alexander’s chin, guides him up in order to take Alexander’s mouth in a surprisingly gentle kiss. The touch is so soft Alexander barely notices his split lip, and so brief he doesn’t get to respond.

“You are a wonder, dear boy. And my brother is a very lucky man.”

“Thank you,” Alexander whispers, his chest so full of feeling he thinks he might drown. It’s such a complicated tangle of emotion. Fondness for this man he barely knows yet trusts beyond all reason. Adoration for George, still absent and yet somehow an undeniable presence filling the room. Pleasure at the wild ache in his ass, at the bruises he can feel scattered all across his skin, at the sated lethargy in his bones and the knowledge that he has served these two men so well.

He is so content it seems almost impossible for this moment to be real. And yet every movement provides inescapable physical proofs that he has not imagined any of what happened tonight.

“Do you really have to leave on Monday?” he blurts.

Lawrence chuckles, and the sound is thick with affection. “Yes, I’m afraid so. But don’t worry. We have the whole weekend ahead of us. I’m sure George and I can make ample use of you before my flight departs.”

“Promise?” Alexander asks with a shiver. He hears the shower cut off and a shuffle of movement from the bathroom.

Lawrence smiles sunnily. “I promise.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We Bind And We Tether](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657471) by [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm)
  * A [Restricted Work] by Anonymous Log in to view. 




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